


The Way Home

by Penkindisbestspecibus



Series: Chernobylbound [2]
Category: Homestuck, S.T.A.L.K.E.R.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Gen, Mercy Killing, Mind Control, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penkindisbestspecibus/pseuds/Penkindisbestspecibus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear reached out with it's icy talons and gripped his heart between them, clenching it with merciless fury. He knew that voice. He knew it well. He had heard it whisper prayers and psalms, and listened to it as it beget him with tales of home and family. He had buried him once... he didn't want to have to bury him a second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> A stand alone piece set within Chernobylbound, before the events of the main story proper. Fun fact: Whilst proofreading, 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' came on my playlist, and I curled up into a ball and sobbed grossly.

The Swamps are alive with the sound of swarming insects, buzzing incessantly as a lone figure edges his way through knee deep water, trying not to think of just what it would do to him if he wasn't wearing a few layers of protective clothing.

Karkat 'Cancer' Vantas is by no means a particularly happy stalker. He hated the Zone and everything in it. Especially the people. The Zone without people may have been a tolerable existence. You know what the mutants want from you (and that's to kill you in horrible ways, and probably eat your body), but you can never tell with other people. Do they want to stab you in the back? The face? Do they want to share their loaf of bread with you? Is it poisoned bread? You. Just. Don't. Know.

 

A slight sound of splashing causes him to freeze. He knows it wasn't him, because he was too busy having a stupid self-indulgent monologue about human nature like it's some fucking film from an art student.

Peering over the reeds, his breath hitches when he gazes upon the vacant, stumbling forms of his fellow stalkers – the lack of headgear, with the exception of a basic mouth covering, meant only one thing. _Zombies_.

Not real undead zombies, like in a Hollywood Blockbuster, probably directed by that mouthbreathing dickstomp Michael Bay. No, these Zombies were just poor unlucky fuckers who had their brains fried by the various sources of Psionic Emissions.

Had he been better equipped at this moment, he may have opted to fight them – during his time with Clear Sky, he and a few others would regularly go on Zombie Hunting trips, delivering mercy kills to the poor bastards wherever they found them. These were often lead by a former priest, a man with greying salt-and-pepper hair who went by the name of 'Sufferer', and could easily be identified by the silver cross hanging from his neck.

As it was, he lacked the necessary firepower or numbers to guarantee a quick and clean battle – opening fire on them now would only draw their attention unnecessarily.

 

Straightening his back, he, carefully and cautiously, began to move. Zombies weren't necessarily too great a threat, and it was possible to avoid a confrontation entirely if you didn't make any sudden movements, and didn't get too close. As long as you didn't get their attention, they wouldn't notice you, and thus, remain ignorant of your presence.

As he reached the end of the swamp, neatly bypassing a confrontation, he made to set off back to Skadovsk where Gamzee was waiting for him but froze in his steps when he heard a familiar mumbling voice.

 

“ _... got to get back... everybody... waiting... have to get back... must be... waiting... so long..._ ” Fear reached out with it's icy talons and gripped his heart between them, clenching it with merciless fury. He knew that voice. He knew it well. He had heard it whisper prayers and psalms, and listened to it as it beget him with tales of home and family. He had buried him once... he didn't want to bury him a second time.

Slowly, he turned to face the source of the voice, it's quiet mumbling seeming to echo around him, deafening in it's loudness. Shambling along, wearing a long black trenchcoat over his suit, a zombified stalker stood before him, dark skinned and grey-haired, with vacant brown eyes staring at nothing in particular. A silver cross gleamed from around his neck.

He knew the moment he heard the voice, but seeing it in the flesh made the nightmare all the more real. “... no...” He whispered quietly, sagging to the thankfully dry ground Sufferer shambled along, still muttering to himself. “ _Have to... get back... must... get back.... which... way?_ ” His dazed, almost dumbfounded voice etched along in a monotone devoid of life or true emotion, a far cry from the quiet steely voice of the former reverend.

 

_He was sitting in around a fire, legs crossed, hands on his knees, leaning forward with great anticipation. Sitting on a small oil drum across from him was Sufferer, smiling calmly as he spoke. “The reason we hunt the Mindless, little crab, is not for their gear, or even the threat they pose. We hunt the Mindless because they are trapped on Earth, their souls bound to this plane. We must set them free so they may find the Afterlife.”_

“ _Again with the God shit. You don't seriously believe that horse shit, do you, you old bastard?” Sufferer laughed at him, eyes crinkling as he smiled in a manner that could only be construed as grandfatherly. “Use your fucking oculars for something other then laughing at everyone, old man, we're surrounded by Hell on Earth, and you still believe in a fucking God?”_

“ _Perhaps God does not care for us in Life, but I pray that he cares for us in Death. I do not pray for myself, little crab, for I am beyond salvation. I can only pray that others find peace.”_

 

The shambling stalker edged it's way towards him, still ignorant of his presence still as he was. Still it mumbled, with his voice but without his smile. Without his kind eyes. Karkat took a deep breath, reaching for a sickle he carried around with him. Some people used knives, but he had a strange affinity towards the sickle that he could never truly describe.

 

_Sufferer drew his pistol, steadying himself with a deep breath as he began to quietly recite a well rehearsed prayer._

Karkat leapt forward, tackling the older male to the ground – thankfully, the other zombies were too far away to notice, even if they were only a few feet away. He shoved the man's gun away before his fried mind could instinctively bear it upon him, and Cancer held Sufferer in a head lock, placing the sickle at his neck with trembling hands.

 

“ _Father in Heaven,” He whispered, watching the head bob as it moved ungainly._

“Father in Heaven,” He said, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes.

“ _You who abandoned us in Life,” He raised the pistol, aiming down it's sights._

“You who abandoned us in Life,” He gripped the struggling stalker tightly with one arm wrapped around his forehead, pressing the sickle in a little deeper, desperately trying to push his mumbled voice out of his mind as the zombified stalker kept declaring his need to return.

“ _I beseech you, take this soul into your embrace,” He steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger._

“I beseech you, take him... home...” He jerked his sickle to the side, blood spraying from the cut freely, a gruesome fountain.

“ _Amen.” He lowered the pistol, as the body hit the ground._

“A... Am... Amen...” The body bucked and writhed, blood splattering over the both of them. Blood, red blood, crimson water of life, it covered his chest and hands and arms and face, until he couldn't see for the blood in his eyes and all he could smell was it's pungent sickly aroma, and all he could taste was it's thick coppery flavour. Still the Zombies did not notice. Streaks of tears ran down his face, leaving pale stretches through the blood caking his face and small circles of pink upon his bloodstained chest as the body finally began to still.

 

He doesn't know how much time had passed until he moved, but by then his eyelids crack open with burgundy flakes and he is almost unrecognisable under the dried blood. Wordlessly, and silently, he rises, and begins to dig.

Soon, a small hole, large enough just to fit the body is formed, and unceremoniously filled. There is no funeral service, no final rites – those have long since been performed when all had assumed that Sufferer had simply died in the Great Push; this wasn't the Sufferer, he said to himself, it was just his body... he was already dead inside. He formed a small pile of stones, placing the now blood-soaked silver cross upon the top, before shambling away to Skadovsk, red eyes vacant and dull, bloodied ginger hair blowing in the wind.

 

When he arrived, he ignored the stares and whispers, making a beeline for his own personal corner of the shipwreck he shared with Gamzee, and promptly dropped himself into the pile of torn rags and ripped clothing. The taller clown-stalker simply wrapped one of the larger blanket-rags around his brother-in-arms, and held him close as Karkat began to cry into his side, not uttering a word or making a sound.


End file.
